


riding home

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bondage, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Heroes, Legacy Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Lovers To Enemies, Lovers Who Are Still Enemies, M/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29443947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Set post-Ifrit ARR through 5.3 MSQ, spoilers. m!WoL/Elidibus enemies/lovers slowburn. Uses Legacy!WoL, but no knowledge of 1.0 is necessary.But the stranger did not concede so easily. "You yourself should have the answer. I believe I recognize you now. You are the slayer of Ifrit, are you not? I have heard the stories." The ice of his gaze was sharpening by the moment, brittle and bright like a glacier becoming molten as it refracted the kiss of the sun. "Tell me, what is a hero? Youmustknow. You havebecomeone, after all.""I am the slayer of Ifrit," the Warrior acknowledged. "That does not make me a hero."
Relationships: Elidibus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 41





	riding home

**Author's Note:**

> _Prompt from anon: “If it isn't too late or too much trouble, would you be willing to write something with WoL/Elidibus or WoL/Lahabrea? No preference on M or F WoL, I'm just curious how you would do it since Elidibus and Lahabrea get shipped less than Emet and I don't think I've seen you do WoL/Ascian before!”_
> 
> _Higher ratings are for later chapters; chapter 1 is Mature/fluff._

_"Deep inside, we're nothing more  
Than scions and sinners._

_In the rain  
Do light and darkness fade."_

_\- "To the Edge," 5.3 MSQ_

* * *

There were countless tides which washed into Vesper Bay, drawn from wells of ocean and people alike. Foam flecked the docks; sweat beaded on traders' brows. Beckoned by the mercantile stalls of Ul'dah, the sea brought endless bounty to the once-minor port town. Its crowds were now filled with every type of traveler imaginable, each one disembarking their ship with an eye already eager for glory.   
  
The reign of the Silver Bazaar was no more. After the Calamity's crude reshaping of the land, Vesper Bay served as the new termination point for the merchant roads which ran from other ports to Ul'dah, infusing the land-locked city with a fresh vein of commerce. The cargo here was of wealthier stock -- and only marginally more legal. Ul'dah had both coin and appetite in plenty, and as the realm began to prosper again, so too did it bid for its share.   
  
Not all its visitors were prepared for the heat of Western Thanalan. Tow-headed hyurs dressed in the heavy jackets of Gridania staggered as they departed their ferries, while lalafell merchants smirked and tightened their turbans against the sun. Dark-furred Keepers flattened their ears in clear annoyance at the noontide glare -- and the Warrior, going through the market to fetch a few supplies for Tataru, spotted one luckless traveler caught in the middle of the town center, already looking on the verge of passing out.  
  
The man was sprawled out on one of the benches, his feet kicked out haphazardly in front of him. Like the Warrior, he was a midlander of average enough height and build, but the similarities ended there. The ivory linen of his robes was of a practical cut -- sufficiently lightweight and loose so that he didn't look like he was slowly smothering inside a roll of fabric -- but the rest of the man was equally fair, with a mess of white hair and a complexion that looked only a few bells away from burning. He looked dazed, leaning back against his bench as he stared towards the sky: either fixated on the endless expanse of blue, or the statue of Lolorito smugly straddling its pedestal.   
  
The Warrior frowned. He watched the traveler for a moment longer before moving on, heading for the nearest stall for the handful of carrots that Tataru had requested he fetch for supper. A few bulbs of garlic were next on the list; he added them to the costs. The onions in his burlap sack were heavier than any vegetables had a right to be. It must have been a good crop, fresh from the latest harvests of Nophica's Wells.   
  
Five years. Five years, since the moon had fallen from the sky. Since Bahamut had unhatched himself from the splintering shell of Dalamud, unleashing bitter fury for his imprisonment and changing the very course of the land itself.   
  
Five years seemed so long, and yet the world had already begun to move on.  
  
When the Warrior returned to the town center, the stranger was still slumped on his bench. There were no travel packs beside him, nor any other supplies. The crowd flowed around him with the same indifference as the ocean ignoring a coastal rock. No one was stopping to check on him; even the pickpockets were leaving him alone.  
  
Only when the Warrior leaned directly into the stranger's field of vision did the man finally stir, the shadow of the Warrior's body darkening the sky in a swath placed between the bench and the punishing sun.  
  
"Here." The Warrior pressed a crude wooden cup towards the man's hand, waiting until it was accepted before he began to fill it carefully from the waterskin he had purchased along with the carrots. "Drink slowly -- the juice is still cool from the ice crystals for storage. You don't want to give too much of a shock to your body."  
  
The stranger's eyes were as pale as the rest of him. Their irises were so bleached that they appeared nearly white: a translucency that caught the desert light like a jewel, yet failed to use it to warm itself back to life. They were fixed upon the Warrior now, blearily uncertain. "You... can _see_ me?"  
  
A smile pulled at the Warrior's mouth. "You're fair, aye, but not invisible. And if you sit out here much longer, you're like to end up sunsick."  
  
"A momentary concern at best." The scoff was faint, but there nonetheless; the stranger made a weak, but dismissive shake of his head. The glance he gave to the cup in his hands was equally disdainful, as if the world itself had betrayed him by mysteriously transporting it there against his will.  
  
He lifted it to his mouth anyway though, and the Warrior gingerly took a seat beside him, feeling the heat of the noonday sun radiating up from the stone and baking the backs of his legs.   
  
"Are you here to meet someone?" Though the man was showing some strength, it seemed far wiser to not abandon him to cook his brains out in the middle of the town. "I can fetch them for you, if you tell me who to look for."  
  
Managing another healthy swallow of the juice, the stranger shook his head. Energy was coming back to him with each gulp, proving his body's dehydration even if he verbally denied it. "I am here to meet everyone and no one." Shifting his weight, he sat up straighter at last, though his shoulders were still lopsided with exhaustion. He drank a third time, this time eagerly enough that a wet sheen was left behind on his mouth; he lifted a thumb to dab at it, smudging it across his lips. "Many heroes and adventurers pass through this port. Watching them restores me. You could say they... remind me of what being a hero is about."  
  
Curiosity stirring, the Warrior allowed himself to lean back against the bench as well. The warmth of the stone lapped at his back, soothing sore muscles even as he could feel a sweat beginning to creep along his hairline. "The definition of a hero is not particularly complicated, depending on who you ask." It came out more frankly than he expected; he reined his next words in carefully, picking through them like a farmer looking for blight upon his grain. "Those who fight to defend others, or to protect their homeland. Those who fell mighty beasts. What more would you search for?"  
  
But the stranger did not concede so easily. "You yourself should have the answer. I believe I recognize you now. You are the slayer of Ifrit, are you not? I have heard the stories." The ice of his gaze was sharpening by the moment, brittle and bright like a glacier becoming molten as it refracted the kiss of the sun. "Tell me, what is a hero? You _must_ know. You have _become_ one, after all."  
  
The Warrior swallowed back his grimace. If there had been any desire within him to brag, it would have been extinguished by the polite, razor-sharp disparagement lurking beneath the man's words, every vowel rounded with smugness.  
  
"I am the slayer of Ifrit," he acknowledged. "That does not make me a hero."  
  
He thought that would be the end of it there -- but the denial only seemed to spur the stranger further, whetting the man's interest. Frost-white hair spilled over one shoulder as the stranger tilted his head, eyes narrowed with an unpleasant, angry mockery.   
  
"Is it false modesty I hear?" Each word was soft, shaped thoughtfully as if the man sought to taste its flavor along with his drink. "Self-pity? An ambition that craves even higher praise? A love of playing at moral superiority, mayhap -- so long as it remains convenient?"  
  
All were fair points; the Warrior had honestly expected that any of them would have already been assumed as fact, and the conversation to be as good as finished. It left a foul patina over his thoughts -- but being grossly misjudged was still safer than the truth.   
  
"You have seen quite a number of heroes pass through, I can tell," he acknowledged instead, turning it into a rueful shake of his head as he hoped to dodge any further questions. "Pick any of the four. Pick _all_ of them, should it suit your imagination."  
  
But the stranger only eyed him shrewdly, and the insistence of it prodded the Warrior like a stick to a chocobo's flank, pressuring him with the silence. The dryness of the desert air leeched the roof of his mouth as he took in a deep breath, already regretting his own honesty.  
  
"Ifrit is the god of the amalj'aa," he explained slowly, letting the brazenness of his tone ebb away like clouds regretting a rainstorm. "They worship him -- and in worship, there is reverence. To kill the living god of a people is not heroism to them, but _horror_." He scraped a fingernail against the leather of the waterskin; the metal neck, still chilled by its contents, was sweating in beads of condensation that slid around the rim of where it was joined to the leather. "Primals _are_ heroes to their followers. They can be both loved and feared, but their worshippers still cry out to be saved by the same gods they venerate. They are believed _in_ , and each one of their believers has a reason to do so. You might as well find a Primal who could pass as Llymlaen incarnate," he continued steadily, "gut them on the very stones of the Zephyr Gate, and _then_ mock every sailor in Limsa Lominsa for weeping."  
  
Caught mid-sip, the stranger lowered his cup. "Heroes, aye -- heroes who strip Eorzea of its aether, as the rumors go."  
  
"Yet to the elementals of the Twelveswood, mankind itself is equally disruptive, despite how we deny it." Leaning over just far enough to see how much juice remained in the stranger's cup, the Warrior lifted the waterskin in an unspoken offer, and poured when he received a slight nod. "Just as we are monsters to the elementals, so too are the amalj'aa considered by many residents of Ul'dah. And to the amalj'aa, Ifrit may stand as an example they aspire to: an indomitable being which the desert can never conquer, for his heat is greater than even the sun itself. His mighty claws," he gestured, lifting his hand to splay it in the air, "able to gouge through stone. A massive tail that can shatter an entire row of sentry towers with a single thrash. His wrath is unequaled by any forge. Primal or legend, Ifrit is a hero indeed -- to those who pray to him."  
  
Letting his words trail off there, the Warrior craned his head around to look up towards the statue of Lolorito -- majestic in size when compared to a lalafell, barely a tribute when measured against a roegadyn. "However the gods may appear, they are still reflections of the people who love them. They are their people's hearts, laid out for the rest of us to disparage and trample upon, to call hideous and ungainly. It is possible to learn so much about someone by what they love. Instead, we spend most of our time _murdering_ it."  
  
By the end of the Warrior's speech, the stranger's expression had changed from thoughtful to solemn, shuttering like a merchant's stall that had chosen to ban all customers. The scrutiny was dangerously assessing. "A strange thing to hear from someone who knows how many fresh graves must now be dug for those claimed as Ifrit's latest victims. Tell me -- are you often in the habit of praising your mortal foes?"  
  
_This has been a mistake_. Discouragement slid its final stone into place. There was good reason for the Warrior to maintain a wall between him and his surroundings; he had been building it carefully ever since he had reawoken to the world. This _exact_ conversation proved why.   
  
It would do no good for visitors to Vesper Bay to begin spreading wild tales of secret Primal worshippers among the public: that the Scions were actually a cult performing rituals in their underground halls, and their battles against the beast tribes were merely pretenses to seize crystals for their own worship. Or, even worse, that the Warrior had been tempered after all, and sent back into Eorzea's arms to assassinate the city-state leaders under a guise of trust.   
  
Minfilia had more than enough work on her hands. And the Scions would not appreciate having to defend themselves from such accusations -- particularly when the cause was someone they still thought of as a newcomer.  
  
Biting back a resigned sigh, the Warrior shook his head. "Forgive me." He stretched his arm out once more, angling the mouth of the waterskin towards the cup to fill it. "Please, keep drinking. If I've offended you, then pray do not take it out on the juice. It is innocent of my misdeeds. I should apologize."  
  
"You should do _no_ such thing." Humor flattened some of the tension in the man's mouth out, though his eyes looked no more pleased than before. "It is rare enough to hear aught other than the same _tired_ pretenses which many adventurers mistake for true courage. Do not join them by shirking your desire to speak it."  
  
The crowds swelled again as a fresh wave of passengers found their way off the dock, jabbering at one another as they trotted past. A chocobo cart laden with crates navigated through the pedestrians, creaking forward as its air envelopes swayed drunkenly above it. The stranger ignored them all effortlessly; none of them came close to intruding upon his territory, even as the Warrior had to pull his feet back to give a pair of armored roegadyn room to cut through the central square, their massive axes splaying over their shoulders like a stag's razored horns.   
  
It was his turn to be uncertain now. The stranger had not agreed with the assessment of Ifrit -- but he had not rejected it either. Picking a stray tuft of chocobo down off the waterskin, the Warrior flicked it into the breeze. "If you had asked me before Carteneau, I imagine my answer would have been much different. Even before then, mayhap," he added reluctantly. Eorzea had been just as dangerous in the early days of joining the Path of the Twelve. "When I first became an adventurer, there was much that seemed strange to me. Now, very little is."  
  
"And yet you fight on, unyielding to any suggestion to quit." Straightening up, the stranger lifted his cup accusingly towards him, as if it were filled with the blood of infants instead of fruit pulp. "For someone who admits to the flaws of glory-seekers, you _do_ continue to perpetrate the very same deeds."  
  
A harsh -- but true -- statement. Yet the stranger had delivered it with what seemed like honest interest, and the expression in those blue eyes was no longer taunting. Despite himself, the Warrior began to relax again, gingerly loosening his guard.   
  
"Aye," he admitted. "For what even _is_ a hero, in these days after the Seventh Umbral Calamity? Surely it must change from era to era. What passes for salvation in one age is tyranny in others. And if that is the case... then why bring me _back?_ "  
  
He had thought he had said the last part too quietly to be overheard -- the cryptic mutterings of some mad, weather-beaten traveler with scarred hands and mud-colored hair in sore need of a trim -- but the stranger caught it anyway, setting his cup down beside him on the bench so that he could rub his mouth thoughtfully with a hand.  
  
"You ask odd questions," he remarked after a moment. "But they are the right ones to ask."  
  
With a sigh, the man leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with his ankle braced upon his knee; his boots were as clean as if they had come fresh from a cobbler's bench, the leather smooth and unscuffed with no signs of wear. "Thankfully for _you_ , being a hero is not a title you get to determine for yourself in the end. Those with enough courage to stand fast while others cower away will _always_ distinguish themselves from the rest. The only choice that belongs to you is if you will demonstrate what strength you possess -- or not."  
  
It was a curious note to land on: somewhere between blame and surrender, standing on a neutral ground where all causes were openly acknowledged as futile. The condemnation that the Warrior had expected had not come. Instead, they were both poised in the middle, like a raft adrift in a river where every bank was coated with poisonous vines, and neither he nor the stranger showed any desire to paddle.  
  
"True enough," he agreed, glancing down at his own boots and ruefully noting the shabbiness of their make. "Though mayhap a hero is not a person at all, but the _relationship_ \-- formed between one person and another. The protected and the protector, those in despair and those who inspire. A teacher and a student. These are _all_ moments of heroism -- and so what else could possibly summarize all the different ways a person can save another?"  
  
By now, he did not expect the stranger to back down easily, and was not disappointed. " _That_ is a summary which is so vague as to be meaningless," the man scoffed -- but the rejection in his tone was mild, as if he had heard that particular counterpoint so many times before, it no longer managed to bother him. His robes whispered in a linen slither as he stretched out his arms, energy returning to him as he flexed his hands. They were unmarked by labor; his fingers lacked any calluses or scars, with no dirt under the well-trimmed nails. "Then you're simply arguing that kindness or goodness _alone_ is heroic, divisible from courage itself. Those qualities -- the melange of them, in which proportions, as if there is a measurable _threshold_ \-- "  
  
Just as swiftly as he had begun to pick up enthusiasm, the stranger broke off suddenly, and cleared his throat. "Your answer is both naive and pedantic," he concluded loftily, with all the cool formality of an adjudicator. "I expect better from you."  
  
The Warrior laughed.  
  
It burst out of him unexpectedly, like a sneeze or a hiccup: a bubble of relief that seemed to drain away all his other words, and worries with it. It was like an emotion he had forgotten how to feel for so long that he no longer had a word for it -- only a sense of something lifting, rising up from a pit in his ribs and up through his chest and face, as if his very thoughts had been bottled up for so long that they had begun to rot, held back out of necessity for how they might impact others. He felt as if he had finally been able to open a door and let the sunlight in for the first time in _years_ , the fresh air of it flooding into his very soul; he felt as if he had just spoken a language he had been afraid to pronounce for fear it might invoke a monster. He felt _good_ , and for a moment, the novelty of it all was worth any other mishaps he may have made along the way.  
  
"You have been watching the crowds for a _long_ while, it sounds like." He capped the waterskin, giving it a slosh with his hand to judge how much was left. "Mayhap I should ask _you_ what manner of hero I should be, and follow your direction."  
  
The easy concession seemed to disarm the man, as if he had also expected nothing but resistance and denial. The frown that creased his lips wavered on the cusp of suspicion, easing slowly into thoughtfulness. "I can assure you, none of the travelers here would even qualify as viable examples," he declared -- and then looked down again, to where his hands had both wrapped themselves around his cup. "But as for you... _you_ shine marginally brighter than the rest. There is potential in your interpretation, quaint as it may be. I would be interested in seeing how your answers might change, now that you will almost certainly be flung into battle against even greater odds."  
  
It was an uncertain offer -- if offer was truly what the man intended. The Warrior did not question it, letting the possibility merely bob about in his head like a twig caught in a current. "Then I will have to look for you once more, so that I can keep you informed. Finish the rest," he suggested, setting the half-empty waterskin on the bench between them. He rose to his feet, allowing himself the luxury of stretching; both his arms felt sore, and he could feel the protest in his shoulders as he scooped up the sack of vegetables, the rough burlap of the bag chafing his skin. "What should I call you by, if I should spot you amidst the crowd?"  
  
When he glanced down, the stranger was watching him, his face gone smooth and secretive once more.  
  
"Ophiuchus," he answered at last. "That is the name by which you may address me -- should you ever happen to see me again."

* * *

Despite the rockiness of their first meeting, the Warrior refused to let himself be put off by the brief encounter. Ophiuchus was arrogant, true -- but half of Ul'dah's middle class alone could easily rival him in that regard. The man's veneer of pride was obvious in its use: a suit of armor to be worn against every threat, and a sledgehammer with which to make the decisive swing first.  
  
It had come at the cost of the man's common sense, however. Ophiuchus's complexion was fair enough to beg a bad case of sunburn if he went about as freely unhatted and unhooded as he seemed fond of doing -- somehow refusing to acquire a tan of any sort, as if his willpower alone reflected the sun. He looked like the type to crisp like a lobster, with no middle ground along the way. He had worn his white hair carelessly loose around his shoulders, unbraided and undecorated; there had been no badge or crest evident about his person. If Ophiuchus was allied to any agency, the proof of it was not one that he saw fit to advertise.  
  
But the man was no idle scholar either, waxing philosophical with the detached air of one who had never lived through the consequences of those very ideas coming to life. He was thoughtful with his words, or at least thought-provoking. And though he had dressed every phrase as a challenge, there had been no true aggression in it: only a jaded resignation, lacking any real desire to best his opponent because there was nothing left to win.  
  
Ophiuchus had spoken with the air of someone who had also seen too much of the dead, and -- like the Warrior -- there was no escaping it in every statement he made.  
  
There was little opportunity to dwell overmuch upon it, however. Minfilia -- polite, pleasant, and as formal as she would have been with any other newly-recruited stranger to her ranks -- set the Warrior immediately to the task of meeting with the sylphs next. He accepted gladly, pausing only to make certain he had enough coin to pay the rent in advance for his inn room. The Scions had offered him one of their spare bunks, and he had tactfully declined; the Waking Sands buzzed with activity in every corner of its halls, and he was without enough seniority in their ranks to request a private room of his own.  
  
Staying in one of the inns was more expensive, but worth it. Doing so was easier than confronting the disquiet that had begun to crawl into his heart the longer that he walked the earth of this new Eorzea,   
  
finding only the distant smiles of strangers in a reshaped land. Like a withering disease that he had noticed only after it had already claimed too much of his body, all he could do now was come to terms with the few capacities he had left. The Archons -- no, the _Scions_ now, born of the remnants of the Path of the Twelve and the Circle of Knowing joined as one -- had been stripped of their relationships with him, and had clung all the tighter together around the holes in their lives.  
  
No longer knowing what they had lost, they also no longer worried about him.  
  
Minfilia alone had recognized him. She had apologized for continuing to treat him as any fresh recruit, and he had nodded in agreement to her explanation -- it would raise too many questions, draw too much suspicion to announce a Warrior of Light had returned when no one else could verify her claim. Imposters could arise, accusations sown. In retrospect, it was a miracle that they had not seen more imitators who sought to capitalize on the fact that no one could remember the faces of the Warriors from before the Calamity; none would have been able to disprove them.  
  
He understood.   
  
But even with that knowledge, it hurt more deeply than he had expected to be around them again, prisoner to an intimacy that was preserved by only one side. There had been Thancred's familiar overtures, guilelessly flirting with the same quips that he had used during their very first meetings. Una Tayuun, frustrated by her own emptied memories, and equally angry by the communal amnesia that surrounded her -- but turning a blank stare towards the Warrior when he had bid her an excited hello. The broken form of Tupsimati on the wall as Minfilia spoke of the threat of the Primals. Papalymo's stern, concentrating frown as he had repeatedly asked, _mayhap I have met a relative of yours before?_  
  
And then there had been the visit to Camp Drybone, with _Cid_ , who hadn't remembered him _either_. Who hadn't remembered _anything_ since before the Calamity, and had been dubbed Marques in the meantime by the clergy who had taken him in -- and whose mental state had seemed so fragile that the Warrior hadn't dared to press him further, not wanting to risk permanent harm.   
  
He could not go to any of them now and expect to be welcomed at their tables, passing a bottle back and forth in easy camaraderie. They could not laugh together in the same way, would not share with him the details of what they had done in their years apart. The trust that had been forged between them had been erased. No amount of stubbornness would cause it to magically return.   
  
_Come and save the world_ , they had offered, their hands eagerly extended -- but the Warrior had heard those words before.  
  
He had heard them from the Scions themselves.  
  
They had moved on, it felt like: into a new future, fresh and ready to heal, eager to hold their memorials and regulate the past to the shadows. This Eorzea was not a world that the Warrior was part of; the very memories of its people excluded him, while Carteneau remained as fresh to his mind as if the smoke was still streaked across his skin. He might have perished in truth five years ago. All that remained was an anonymous ghost haunting his own life.   
  
And he _was_ new, as far as it mattered. Compared to his own strength before the Calamity, the Warrior was a cheap imitation of what he had once been. The greenest recruit scraped out of an alleyway in Limsa Lominsa could best him now; his skills in combat were nearly absent, and his aetheric control had atrophied to almost nothing, a fraction of what he had brought to bear at the Carteneau Flats. And while he remembered the Path, that experience did not apply to how the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had chosen to operate -- they organized their forces differently, assigning adventurers out singly instead of in pairs on the road, had different contacts and connections to heed.   
  
He was new in every way, and demanding to be treated otherwise would only make things worse.  
  
He shoved his feelings down and aside each time he saw them, reminding himself to keep at the appropriate distance that they expected. He could do it. He could become an anonymous adventurer, a simple cog in a greater machine. He could be the person that the Scions expected _and_ needed so that they could move forward -- focused on Minfilia's dream, rather than on a stranger demanding their dearest trust unearned.   
  
He could wake alone in the middle of the night in his solitary inn room, bothering no one whenever he sat upright with a gasp, clawing at the sheets. He was free to be jolted out of murky dreams by the sound of cartwheels imitating the rattle of artillery fire -- spending the rest of the night unable to sleep again, pulling the shutters open to peer through his window again and again to reassure himself that the sky was merely full of stars, and not streaked with the livid fire of Dalamud's descent. Sometimes Nael van Darnus was there again, roaming through the bloodstreaked paths of Mor Dhona, laughing with gunhalberd in hand. Sometimes, there was Bahamut.  
  
In the end, the worst dreams were always the same: the whine of munitions screaming overhead, the sour stench of shit and stomach acids spilling out onto the air, bodies strewn about like half-crushed dolls, their bones and blood ground down like rolanberry jam to be smeared across the dirt.  
  
"What a diligent new recruit we have," Tataru sang out as the Warrior stopped by on his way out to the Twelveswood, spending the time before his ferry departed by helping to haul in supply boxes. "Oh, you don't have to worry about putting them away! The more experienced Scions can take care of that!"  
  
He smiled back at her as carefully as he could manage, feeling the tightness of it like a mask across his face: blank and pleasant and utterly controlled.   
  
"Yes, of course," he said agreeably, taking comfort in how natural it sounded. "I'll get out of their way."

* * *

The Warrior looked for Ophiuchus anyway the next time he returned to Vesper Bay, peering over the heads of the crowd and ducking around carts whose chocobos threatened to trample his feet. It was too easy to mistake a turban for a flash of white hair; linen robes were common among merchants native to the region, and the man had carried no visible weapon to mark himself by. There were countless travelers bustling about, and each clot of bodies offered a fresh chance of success.  
  
But despite the flood of visitors through the port, the Warrior could not spot the man he was hoping for. With an inward shrug, he turned towards the inn, wondering how much of a fee he had accumulated in his absence in exchange for keeping his room held aside.   
  
He had not taken more than a few steps away from the town center before he caught sight of a pale figure after all -- leaning along the railing of an outer stairwell between two floors of an inn -- and he instantly changed direction, quickening his steps.  
  
"Ophiuchus!" he called out gaily when he was close enough, fighting upstream against the crowd. Unlike himself, the merchants gave the man more than enough space, as if his disdain had formed an impenetrable sphere around him that kept everyone else instinctively at bay.   
  
The Warrior stepped directly into it. The reward for his temerity was a curious look as Ophiuchus turned a measured stare upon him, showing no sign of either enthusiasm or aversion: only a cool, implacable indifference, as untouchable as the pale frost of his eyes.  
  
"Slayer of Ifrit," the man observed impassively. "So, you have survived yet another handful of suns."  
  
"And _you_ have not caught heat sickness and cooked yourself like a wavekin hauled onto the docks." Too delighted to be driven away that easily, the Warrior slowed to a triumphant halt. Jostled by a passing miqo'te, he stumbled closer, until his hip was pressed against the railing, his head craned back to look up at the other man with a single step left vacant between them.   
  
"I... have given some thought to your request for criteria," he admitted. "How much courage or kindness or mercy is necessary to define a hero, and if there _is_ a certain balance of those virtues which is required. I would very much like to hear your opinion on the subject -- if you would be willing?"  
  
The invitation seemed to take Ophiuchus by visible surprise. He crossed his arms in a crisp, defensive motion, his sleeves sweeping over the woven embroidery of his belt. Shifting his weight, he leaned back against the rail while he scrutinized the Warrior thoughtfully, as if he had been presented with a grapevine that had suddenly produced clusters of gold instead of fruit, and now had the task of figuring out how to still make wine.  
  
"Have you, now?" Amusement finally won out; Ophiuchus inclined his head in encouragement. "And can you recite the perfect recipe to produce a champion, like extracting a pie from an oven?"  
  
Undeterred, the Warrior held up a hand, ticking off points on his fingers. Coming up with the list had been a welcome distraction as he had trudged through the Twelveswood and slogged through streams; the hard part had been remembering it all. "Courage without consideration is merely brashness. And when it comes to kindness, it requires a great deal of courage to show it in the _first_ place. When we have a choice between expressing ourselves and holding our peace, the battlefield then is _ourselves,_ and the prize is our own potential well-being. Is it not courageous," he concluded triumphantly, even as he tried to remember if he had just fumbled the very wording he had spent so long rehearsing, "to even show the smallest onze of compassion for another, when we have been taught to regard our generosities as weaknesses -- as open doors for thieves to ravage us bare?"  
  
Ophiuchus arched one of his sharp eyebrows. "And so you would compare the quelling of a Primal to holding the door open for a passer-by?" He spread his arms wide in mockery, his fingers splayed like wings. "Why, then -- 'tis true, and we are _surrounded_ by a veritable _bounty_ of heroes, eager to save us from the burden of too many packages in our arms."  
  
The wit was as dry as the desert itself -- but it was encouraging, nonetheless. Even though Ophiuchus's tone was openly scornful, the man's eyes had softened by a fractional amount. There were the faintest creases of a smile mirrored in the corners of his lips, so slight that the Warrior almost missed them entirely, and he latched onto that chance as fearlessly as sailing into an aether storm.  
  
"If we cannot overcome ourselves first by reaching out to others," he suggested, cocking his head expectantly, "then how can we expect to best our enemies?"  
  
"A hero can save others while still being plagued by doubt, poor dress sense, _and_ gambling habits," Ophiuchus pointed out -- but the passion of the argument was coming upon him, and he had already straightened up from his casual slouch, his energy invested now in counterpoints. "And is it not foolishness instead of wisdom if a person believes their advice to be so perfect that it _must_ be delivered to everyone around them, whether that assistance is asked for or not?"  
  
"And that is exactly why you _should_ keep both courage and kindness ready at a moment's notice," the Warrior countered, grabbing for the thread of Ophiuchus's logic before the man could snatch it away. "For how else can you determine if your help is necessary, if you have never taken the time to learn the needs of others at all?"  
  
They both broke off there, eyes narrowed stubbornly at one another -- but the Warrior was grinning, and Ophiuchus's bolted-on defensiveness had relaxed enough that his reactions were staying visibly on his face this time. Their attentions were fixed upon each other like fighters upon a field, waiting for the single misplaced breath that would be cue to attack.   
  
"I dislike you," Ophiuchus announced suddenly, but without any heat in it. It seemed to startle him to even hear the words in his own voice -- as if his tongue had come to the conclusion on its own, while the rest of him was still negotiating the presence of mundane emotions. "You are not as simple as your peers, and that -- that places _troubles_ upon me."  
  
The perplexed, helpless bewilderment in the man's voice was better than any gilded trophy; it was both strangely endearing, and a reminder for the Warrior to relent before true offense could be given. "I have received worse compliments, I suppose. Well?" he added, cocking his head in invitation towards the entryway of the inn. "Shall we share a few rounds of ale as well as news of the road? It would at least assure me you have been drinking _something_ , even if it is not water."

* * *

They began their meetings tentatively in that fashion, claiming a table at whichever tavern was nearest while they dipped fresh-baked bread in olive oil and salts, as equally hungry for the fare as they were for conversation. Sometimes, they found their seats easily; other evenings, they roamed across half the town in search of an open spot of floor. Vesper Bay saw numerous travelers with each new sun, many of whom needed a bed for no longer than a night, or a handspan of bells while they waited for the tides to turn. Commerce raced to keep up with Ul'dah's demands. The dust of the road coated everything in Vesper Bay, stirred up by the soles of hundreds of boots escorting cargo back and forth -- everything save Ophiuchus, who seemed as perpetually untouchable as the moon itself.  
  
Drink flowed freely, as did their words. Ophiuchus -- from what little the Warrior learned -- was a scribe by trade, which explained a great deal of both his demeanor and the lack of physical labor on his body and clothes. His business was less invested in lofty scholarship, and more in the management and tallying of accounts, sending orders out to his various contacts and often receiving only frustrating answers back. As he explained it, he had a number of clients who traveled without properly paying their warehouse bills and setting their affairs in order, and he was inevitably left to tidy up in the chaos of their wake.  
  
It was a trade that the Warrior did not envy. Many merchants were literate by necessity in Eorzea -- but not all, and their customers and suppliers were often even less so. And while one merchant might be perfectly capable of numeracy, able to handle mathematical figures and ciphers for inventory, that knowledge did not always extend to complex trading agreements or permit requirements. Ophiuchus's clientele operated in all three city-states, as well as settlements beyond. Similarly enough, it brought him often back to Vesper Bay like an errand boy called to heel: performing the job he had been recruited for, a simple transaction for services required.  
  
It made for a brittle kind of arrogance that cloaked Ophiuchus, like a shell that had been worn thin under countless assaults, and was now reinforced by whatever substance he could throw at it. He swung regularly between overweening confidence and remote indifference, as if he had become so accustomed to wearing the role of a master statesman in front of his clients that he now defaulted to it in any moment of uncertainty.   
  
Like a mirror to the Warrior's own plight, his demeanor was a necessary wall between him and the rest of the world: it was the face that Eorzea wished to see, and had come to believe was actual truth.  
  
Yet whenever that facade would slip, there was a clumsiness about Ophiuchus's feelings that the Warrior could not help but reach towards. There was a rawness about those moments, a confused lack of polished control, as if Ophiuchus had spent so long shoving his emotions behind an impenetrable shield that it shocked him that they still existed at all. He was prone to fretting over the most minor details, insisting on examining them himself before he could set his mind at ease; even though he was comfortable in a crowd, he did not like to be drawn willingly into loud gatherings, preferring the quiet of the outskirts. The man was a master at keeping his mouth impassive, the timbre of his voice calm -- but whenever he began to express himself, his composure began to quickly decay, as if he hated the thought of being anything less than a perfect, marble statue, but hated someone else _noticing_ even more.   
  
If the Warrior had been anyone else, he might have found himself frustrated by the man's stubbornness. But there was no reason for him not to -- and more importantly, Ophiuchus had asked the questions that he was already wondering about himself. What a hero was, in a world where fear only continued to escalate. Where adventurers bragged about marks slain, beastmen defeated -- but not conflicts which had been resolved before a weapon could even be drawn. Where anyone could pay a stranger a handful of gil to kill what they were told, and claim that their enemies deserved it.   
  
If a hero could truly call themselves one, when the war had never ended.  
  
It was futile, of course. Narrowing down such criteria was an aesthetic exercise at best; Ophiuchus had just about admitted as much in their first meeting, and the Warrior could not refute it. The impossibility of such a task slowed neither of them down. It was as if reality itself had proven to be so mercurial, so _fickle_ in what it had taken away from them that only by having guidelines as resolute as crystal itself could they move forward with their lives -- defending and hating those rules in equal measure.  
  
As if the very idea of heroism had become a leash that had bound them both, and now their only option was to grip onto it tightly even as it cut into their hands, like a rope leading them out of what the world had become.  
  
" _Relationships_ ," the Warrior liked to insist smugly whenever they ran each other too far down the twists of contradictions, earning himself a disgusted roll of his companion's eyes.  
  
Yet no matter how lively their evenings might be, they would always draw to a close. Ship bells would echo out through the harbor, marking the changing of the tides; sailors would haul themselves up and toss coin upon their tables as they lumbered back to their duties. And Ophiuchus, too, would excuse himself to whatever ledgers he needed to attend to before he could fall asleep, and the Warrior would go back to his own quarters and prepare for the next task that the Scions had allotted him.   
  
But when it came time for the Warrior to pack his gear and pay the inn for another round of traveler's rent, he found himself gathering Ophiuchus's questions as well, lining them up like potions on a shelf. In the quiet of the road, it was the memory of those conversations that kept him company as he went about his work for the Scions, wandering alone on the new roads the realm had been reshaped into.  
  
And in the early bells before dawn -- when the Warrior would pace back and forth in his quarters, too shaken to return to his bed -- he had those words to consider instead, building a path for him to focus on while all the rest of the world remained dark and asleep.

* * *

He began to look forward to the return trips to Vesper Bay, now that they offered more than a mere check-in with Minfilia as they both pretended to be minor acquaintances in front of the rest of the Scions. Sometimes he was lucky enough to catch Ophiuchus observing the town from one of the exterior stairwells; other times, he searched every side road, and still could not find the man. He did not think too much of it. They had never set up a regular schedule, after all -- an impossibility when nothing about the Warrior's days were routine, going where he was ordered to go and returning when he was called -- and so every meeting was a welcome gift. A linkpearl was too great an imposition; if he _did_ have the option, the Warrior had to admit ruefully, then he would probably be jabbering at Ophiuchus every day.  
  
Yet the delight of finding the scribe never dimmed. After one evening spent recounting the Warrior's most recently failed attempts to befriend the sylphs -- Yda had tried to teach him a dance she had _sworn_ would be certain to impress them, which had involved getting down on the ground and spinning about while kicking his legs up in the air, and which the Warrior had soundly failed -- he challenged Ophiuchus to another round of defining a hero's qualifications. Ophiuchus was in a good mood as well; a smile had appeared on the scribe's face early on in their meal, and had only widened further even as the Warrior had described how he had managed to get an entire faceful of dirt thanks to Yda's instruction, along with a badly cut lip.  
  
But when presented with this fresh round of questioning, Ophiuchus took a deep, deliberate drink of his tea before setting it aside. "Your inferior attempts thus far have failed to uncover anything new," he said dryly, and then clapped his hands on the table. "Very well, Primal-slayer. Let us begin with yourself as an example. Do you want to be saved, or to save others?"  
  
It was a basic question, but the Warrior did not take umbrage; it was equally important to establish a baseline before moving forward. Still, he couldn't resist adding some complexity. "I wish to help others save themselves." He picked away a piece of onion from his plate, uncertain if the dark spot on it was from blight or burning. "Mayhap a hero is simply one person who saves another regardless of the threat -- and there _is_ no other qualification, no meter of glory or battle. If you can be there even _once_ for someone else in their time of need, regardless of _what_ that need is, then such heroism is as sincere as any other."  
  
Ophiuchus accepted that twist with a wry, unsurprised nod, one of his pale eyebrows arching in amusement as he considered his rebuttal. "How terribly quaint. The most basic definition of savior one can find: a person who saves. Is that really _all_ you've come up with?"  
  
The Warrior pulled off another hank of bread and dipped it into the oil, letting it sop up as much flavor as it could until it dribbled glistening drops when he finally lifted it up. "We are made memorable by our deeds." Despite his care, a fat splotch of oil fell onto the table when he took a bite; he resisted the urge to simply mop it up with his finger, and instead fumbled for his napkin. "Mayhap a hero is only the action, and the identity of the individual matters not at all -- only the memory that is left behind."  
  
For once, Ophiuchus did not rise to the rhetoric. Instead, the man leaned back in his chair and contemplated the glass vial of olive oil, the golden hue of its contents warmed by the nearest candles.  
  
"Then, in a world where memories are poorly kept treasures indeed," he remarked softly, "are heroes not made equally worthless?"

* * *

Two unexpected casualties were lost to the Thousand Maws of Toto-Rak: both of the Warrior's boots, which had been plunged into so many coatings of slime that they threatened to crack into rigid pieces when he tried to gingerly peel them off. He had been forced to shuck them into the rubbish heap -- the leather so badly ruined that he could not even sell them for scraps -- and had made his way back to Vesper Bay on a pair of thin sandals, feeling each painful stone of the road along the way.  
  
Despite the cost to his equipment, the Warrior was still feeling optimistic about their chances. True, the search for the sylph elder brought him to Buscarron's, and then all the way to La Noscea, and then _back_ to the Twelveswood, straining even his stamina as he leaned heavily upon the aetherytes to shorten the route. But the elder's health was the most important outcome, along with the affirmation of peace between the sylphs and Gridania. It had been particularly satisfying to deliver a good report to the Scions this time, seeing the encouraging smiles of Yda and Papalymo as they cheered at the successful rescue.  
  
The rest of the report had been less upbeat. It had been disconcerting to see an Ascian in the Thousand Maws, taking advantage of the opportunity to try and drive the sylphs further away from an alliance with Gridania. Disconcerting -- but inevitable.  
  
He ducked through the cacophony of Vesper Bay, dancing around cargo crates being lugged in every direction. One of the larger trading ships had just come through, it seemed, and all its sailors were busy fleeing to the local taverns while merchants squabbled over who had the greater right to the loading docks. The Warrior hastily dodged past an argument that looked about to erupt into a brawl -- an upended box sat forlornly on the ground between two enraged roegadyn, its precious silks spilled into the dirt -- and then nearly tripped over a stack of polearms that had been poorly angled against a wall and were now gently sliding directly into the middle of the road, threatening to either block the road or be broken.  
  
He had just begun to give up on his search when he felt the stir of air beside him, and then Ophiuchus's hand descended to tap his elbow in greeting.  
  
"Primal-slayer." Taking a step back to restore the distance between them, Ophiuchus raked his gaze from head to toe. "Alive yet again, and in possession of all your limbs. I shall have to pay up my share of the bet."  
  
"I have a _name_ ," the Warrior protested gamely. "I gave it to you during our very first meeting."  
  
"Mayhap. But a name bestowed by one's responsibilities is far more telling, I've found." With that, Ophiuchus's scrutiny became a frown; he squinted down his nose at the Warrior as if Toto-Rak had left an incriminating stain on the Warrior's shirt. " _You_ are in a fair enough mood. Is there some mischief about which I should be aware of?"   
  
"Ah." Caught out, the Warrior patted the heavy satchel that clung to his hip. "I spotted something while I was traveling through Aleport, and thought you might enjoy it. The merchant claimed it as a book of older Ul'dahn legends, long overshadowed by newer glories. It may not be to your liking, however -- as a native of Ul'dah, I'm certain you must already know all the stories within it. But, I thought, mayhap... it might be of some small entertainment?"  
  
Doubt had driven him to fret for the entire trip back to Vesper Bay, but there had clearly been no need: the Warrior could read the intensity of Ophiuchus's interest in the way that the man's eyes widened for only a heartbeat before they narrowed again, vexed with his own reaction and the betrayal of his body to show it.   
  
The Warrior fought back the relief of his grin even as he saw one of Ophiuchus's hands begin to drift towards the satchel, as if hoping to catch him off-guard and steal the prize away without having to wait. "Food first, and I'll share it with you then."  
  
Ophiuchus was stubborn enough to fight back against even that decree. "Philosophers say that knowledge _is_ the true fare of the soul," he drawled, undaunted, and skated his fingers over the buckles before the Warrior twitched his hip away with a laugh, clapping his hand upon the pack to keep it shut.  
  
They managed to find an open table in the narrowest corner of the nearby inn; most of the sailors had stuck to the taverns closest to the docks, while the remainder had trickled out across the town. The Warrior took his time in ordering food and drink for them both, pretending to ignore the way that Ophiuchus drummed his fingers meaningfully, eyes narrowing a little bit further every time the meal was revised. Finally -- without daring to drag it out further -- the Warrior pulled his satchel open, retrieving the book from inside and setting it upon the table for examination.   
  
He immediately regretted it. As proud as he had been of the gift all the way back to Vesper Bay -- keeping it diligently wrapped in thick cloth to keep it protected from scuffs and moisture -- the tome looked shabby in the tavern light. The leather of its cover was worn so thin that the wood of its bindings was clearly visible, stained by age. Any intricate tooling had long gone smooth, blurring into masses of curves and bumps without any clear details. Compared to the finer volumes that adorned the shelves of other scholars, the tome seemed like a cheap collection of papers, thrown together as a novice's first attempt to learn their craft.  
  
But Ophiuchus reached out to touch the book reverently anyway, noticeably pleased as he rotated it carefully towards him. Using both hands, he slowly levered open the book's cover, careful not to crack the lacings of its spine.   
  
"Stories from the earliest days of Ul'dah's naming," he murmured, running his hands over the first page, and then turning gingerly through the table of contents. "To judge from the year, they date from shortly after the era of Belah'dia drew to a close, split in twain at the hands of its own heirs. A fascinating time, you know -- Ul'dah and Sil'dih, twin cities with a shared inheritance of philosophy, culture, and the arts. Ripped apart in their identities, and yet their people originated from a single nation, reared on the same histories and legends. Divergence has always been of particular interest to me," he continued idly, letting his fingers dip down to trace along the soft edges of the book's contours. "How one single... _place_ can fracture into nations which call themselves independent, but which hold the common root of their origins within the unconscious minds of their own people. Touch but one thread, and you may trace it back through eons. A thousand variations may arise -- but all remain connected through that first same heart."  
  
The passion of it all was well beyond what the Warrior had expected; he had anticipated minor enthusiasm at best, but Ophiuchus was fully enthralled. In the sudden lull, he tried to recall anything else of interest in the pages. "When I was looking through it, I came across a story about a hero named Jujuro Juro. A general of Ul'dah, who conquered sandworms as her pets, and sent them to swallow her enemies. There are illustrations too, very detailed ones," he added helpfully, feeling suddenly very foolish about the whole business, as if a few scribbles might compare to the expertise that Ophiuchus had shown. "I had hoped it might add to your research on heroes. At the least, it is a change from Vesper Bay."  
  
When he dared to glance up, Ophiuchus was still deeply entrenched in the book; he had already leafed halfway through the volume's contents. But something about the Warrior's comments arrested the man's attention after all, and he paused before turning the next page.  
  
"A version of that story survived into the annals of Sil'dih, you know," the man remarked slowly, brow knitting as he dredged the tale out of whatever mental archive it had been stored in. "Though due to Ul'dah's efforts in concealing its history, few know of it. _Their_ hero was known as Nanalija Fefelija, a distant relative to Lalawefu Sil Tatawefu, the King of Springs. Beloved of the commonfolk, Nanalija Fefelija drew his greatest strength through the alliances he formed. Though similarly granted the rank of a general, he rarely saw battle himself. Instead, he amassed a great number of comrades whom he convinced to fight on his behalf." Rapping his fingers briskly upon the table as if he had just concluded a lecture in the middle of a teaching hall, Ophiuchus refocused his attention on the Warrior. "Now. Which do you think was the greater hero -- Jujuro Juro, or Nanalija Fefelija? The former risked herself in combat directly, while the latter stood aside so that others could place themselves in harm's way instead."  
  
The answer seemed obvious -- and that alone caused the Warrior to pause, easing his way around the trap he knew was lurking. "A hero makes others better," he suggested. "Which includes not only leading by example, but also creating opportunities where those strengths can shine. Thus, both Nanalija Fefelija and Jujuro Juro were heroes."  
  
"A relative definition." Ophiuchus's mouth pinched thin with disapproval. The point of his chin dipped as he canted his gaze towards the crowd of travelers around them. "And how would you even define that, pray? _Better_. Your cause may have integrity, after all -- but the people you may need to achieve it might not. Does your presence alone justify their actions, in the name of heroism? Does it empower them with nobility by default? Under Nanalija Fefelija's banner, how many of his so-called allies merely took advantage of the opportunity to improve their own fortunes, lending their power with the selfish expectation of being repaid in fame or rank?"  
  
"We cannot know." Retreating to a defense that was timeless for a reason -- as frustrating as it was to resort to such tactics -- the Warrior rolled his mug along his fingers, careful not to splash the ale out. "And even if we knew the truth, the stories themselves are what inspire true heroes in the future. Else, what hope does each generation have to reach for? The dreams which are passed on are ones we can all share, whether we seek to lead an army of heroes, or to watch over them as a strategist."  
  
"Ah." Stymied momentarily, Ophiuchus acknowledged the point and reached for his own mug. "Stories about heroes _are_ how we build commonality. Like tenets of faith, so that complete strangers may meet and still have shared traditions, shared points of language and an avenue upon which to connect. Let us say that there is a sailor in La Noscea who sailed forth to slay a venomous monster in its lair, and a Wood Wailer from Gridania who did the same on chocobo-back. It does not matter if the monster is a scalekin or a vilekin -- two individuals from each land will have grown up on legends of a hero who had to face a deadly foe alone. With that, they have something in common, even if though they hail from entirely different parts of the realm."  
  
"So the real hero is actually a story." Now they were getting into theatrics, splitting hairs as recklessly as a thaumaturges might burn their own lifeforce in order to spark a lantern. The Warrior knew full well how pedantry irritated Ophiuchus; it was precisely why he pursued it anyway, grinning all the wider with each outlandish claim. "Or, mayhap, the minstrel who travels from land to land and ensures those stories are heard. For _they_ have full control over the tale, do they not? They need not even have an actor, merely history for their stage. Mayhap heroism lies in their veracity, and _their_ courage in sharing the legend."   
  
As predicted, Ophiuchus tried -- and failed -- to keep his composure, rolling his eyes before the theory was even halfway complete. "I will abandon you to the company of these dullards, if you persist with such _nonsense_. The _real_ hero," he mimicked, every syllable dripping with contempt, and the Warrior broke into a chuckle, holding up his hands in a bid for peace.   
  
"No, no," he soothed. "Mayhap it simply comes back to relationships. Those around the hero must be affected in some way. If they are encouraged to better themselves by following the same example, then that inspiration still takes root. Like a... torch passed on, or candles lit from the same flame."  
  
"I will _never_ hear the end of it with you," was Ophiuchus's breathless, vexed reply, a curse made to the air itself as he shook his head, and then vengefully reached over and snatched away the plate of sauteed garlic before the Warrior could spear another clove for his bread. "Heroes exist even when the people they aid are wretched cowards who will spare not even a word of thanks for their own salvation. _Some_ might argue that doing so is the greatest heroism of all. Some -- but _not_ you," he added sharply, aiming his fork directly at the Warrior's eye in warning. "I have heard _enough_ of your madness for tonight."  
  
As pointed as the threat was, its underlying warmth defanged any venom. The Warrior grinned. "Does the book please you, then?"  
  
He saw Ophiuchus's eyes narrow, forced to finally make a decision on the gift. "It is merely a book," the man proclaimed dismissively -- but then he curled his fingers protectively over the cover, and pulled it closer towards him, navigating it carefully to a clean spot on the table where it would not be splashed by the meal.  
  
A better man might have kept himself free of smugness. The Warrior was not that man. "Mayhap books are the true heroes, mm?"  
  
"Which would make _you_ an ignorant reprobate."  
  
"A reprobate who is feeding you a fine meal on his own coin, _and_ providing a welcome alternative to another evening of you smothering yourself in numbers. Here, have more of the steamed thickshell, the spices are fantastic tonight," the Warrior urged, already cutting off a broad piece from his own serving and dragging Ophiuchus's plate over so that he could shovel more food atop it, despite the man's protests. It was true: the food in Vesper Bay had been better of late than he could ever remember it being before. He no longer had any trouble cleaning his plate -- particularly when it was twice as enjoyable to watch Ophiuchus savour each meal as well.   
  
Prodded by the Warrior's insistent taps of his fork, Ophiuchus finally speared one of the wavekin chunks and took a neat bite -- and then a second, trying to be deliberately slow about the act as if to deny his own interest in the food.   
  
"Where are you off to next?" he asked diffidently, and then used the question as a distraction to take another piece.  
  
"Back to Little Ala Mhigo and the Black Shroud." The Warrior finished off his drink with a final swallow, and set the empty mug down hard upon the table with a _thunk_. "I'll be riding back and forth for _days_. I might as well turn _myself_ into an aetheryte at this rate."   
  
It was a good enough note to begin winding down their evening with, and yet the Warrior hesitated, wondering how much he should risk. "Would you," he began, not really certain of his words anymore, now that they had exited the familiar realm of theoretical debate. "I mean, is there aught of interest I can look for you, while I am traveling? Not necessarily another book," he added quickly, even as he tried not to think about several Gridanian shelves which had been particularly promising, and which he had committed to memory for later. "A quill, mayhap? Some fresh inks, for your work. Is there a particular alchemist you prefer?"  
  
Ophiuchus's eyebrow, arched, resembled a drawn bow: equally dangerous in whatever attack it had poised and waiting. "You would deign to think of me, while you are out there saving the realm?" He waved his fork languidly in the air. "When you have villagers to rescue, innocents who might worship your name? _I_ certainly have no great treasures to reward you with, I fear."  
  
"On the contrary." This was an answer that was far simpler than proving the worth of myths and legends, and the Warrior delivered it with a broad grin. "You give me your company, each and every time."

* * *

As it turned out, the trip to continue pleading with the Ala Mhigan Resistance left little opportunity for the Warrior to browse the merchant stalls. The refugees had ended up as distrustful as the sylphs, and for good reason: Gundobald had no cause to welcome outsiders when his own people were growing restless and angry, willing to pursue the promises of hooded strangers if it meant they might finally have the power to punish Garlemald.   
  
The Garleans were dangerous enough. With more and more settlements being stirred to defend themselves through any means, aggressions and protections could easily considered one and the same.  
  
But in the mess of so many leads going every which way, the Warrior had at least managed to track down evidence of the Twelveswood murders as originating from Haukke Manor, of all places. And -- as auspicious as it might have been to enter a haunted estate at the bell of midnight -- even the Warrior had to admit that it was better to rest, and investigate the reports in the morning.  
  
He made his final rounds with the merchants of Fallgourd Float, tucking away some travel rations in case he needed a bite on the road, and checking through his potions. His armor had needed only minor repairs, all of which would be finished the next day. After he had run through every last item he could think of, he finally slung his pack over his shoulder and headed up the stairs in the Bobbing Cork, counting off the hallways until he reached the fork leading to his own room.   
  
When he rounded the last corner, Ophiuchus was there.  
  
They both froze in place, equally stunned into silence; Ophiuchus had his hand halfway lifted, as if about to knock upon the Warrior's door. He looked the same as ever, his pale robes unbesmirched by mud or dust. His hood was down around his shoulders, revealing the disheveled strands of a person who had only recently taken it off, and had not had a moment to comb their hair flat again. He stood out like a spot of cream in the hallway, a blotch of white dye accidentally dripped upon the polished mahogany of Gridania's forests, and utterly unprepared to be there.  
  
Before the Warrior could do more than blink at him a few times, Ophiuchus suddenly turned away and strode rapidly down the hallway, vanishing around the nearest corner without a word.  
  
"Ophiuchus!" Forgetting everything else, the Warrior took a few steps forward, and then broke into a jog to try and catch up.   
  
Impossibly enough, Ophiuchus had already disappeared. The Warrior turned down one branch and then another with no luck, backtracking to the main hallway with increasing speed. The trail was already growing cold. All the corridors were empty. Just as he had nearly given up, however, he cut through a service interval between two shorter hallways, and finally spotted the man.  
  
Ophiuchus had his hand already on the latch of another door, as if to press it open -- but had stopped, staring at the Warrior with all the fierce denial of a man who had just been caught in the middle of something he had no desire to admit being part of.  
  
The Warrior slowed to a halt, nearly skidding on the carpet. "My apologies," he blurted; the rest of his wits promptly slammed into him with the force of an parade of roegadyn cramming themselves into a closet, pointing out that Ophiuchus might have been avoiding him for a _reason_ , and that chasing the man down was hardly considered polite. "Is... that your room? Are you also staying here?"  
  
Habit jostled the other man into answering, his tone curt with distraction. "No," Ophiuchus stated flatly, regarding the door with a contemptuous frown that the Warrior could recognize as dismay. "Simply _a_ room. I know not whom it belongs to. I... wished to see you, but it seemed foolish to do so without cause. Thus, I thought to leave, but I was not certain of _that_ either. So I... sought a moment to collect my wits. That is all."  
  
He broke off there, glaring openly at the door handle now as if _it_ had been the instrument which had dragged him there and then forced him into such an awkward position -- and the Warrior, fighting to swallow down a grin, cocked his head.   
  
"So, do you?" he ventured tentatively. "Wish to see me?"  
  
"If I knew _that_ , it would hardly be a dilemma, _would_ it?" Ophiuchus snapped back sourly. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, and the reaction alone -- so clear in its disdain for falling prey to such _indignity_ \-- was enough to shed any further shyness on the Warrior's part.   
  
"I am glad to have you here." The confession took no effort; it came out of him freely, and left the Warrior smiling before he had even finished delivering the last word. "Are you in Gridania on important business?"  
  
"Naught of interest, I fear." Ophiuchus glanced away, and then, strangely, the smallest smile appeared on his face as well: embarrassed but also pleased, so much so that it overtook the man's own annoyance at himself and left only a faint flush on his cheeks as his gaze roved over the floor. "'Twas an exasperatingly _long_ week of struggling with several of my associates, and I found myself utterly drained of patience. Yet, instead of going to watch the crowds at Vesper Bay alone, I realized... I wanted to come see _you_ instead. When I heard you were staying here, rather," he clarified swiftly. "Sheer luck indeed that my business had me already in the Shroud, and I had no need to travel, naturally."  
  
The scribe interrupted himself with a sudden dry laugh then, as if it was his own words that he was amused by, amazed by their audacity. "An imposition, I'm sure. An inexplicable moment of weakness that I shall not repeat. Pray, do your best to put it far from your mind."  
  
But it was too late. There were too many signs that the Warrior had spotted to be fooled, little ones that he had painstakingly taught himself to look for over their many meetings. The forced aloofness of Ophiuchus's tone. The frankness of his words. The slight curve to his mouth, as inwardly pleased as when he just stole the last smudge of honey butter from a dish.  
  
"On the contrary," the Warrior said, openly honest so that Ophiuchus did not have to be. "I welcome it. Your presence brings meaning to my evening here. Thank you for seeking me out."  
  
At this, Ophiuchus's eyes did dart up at last, just fast enough to look at him, as if expecting to spot a lie in his expression -- and then down again, his smile widening without bothering to hide it this time.  
  
"Well," he said, trying to sound stern even as his eyes only continued to warm, creasing in private satisfaction, "I shall have to intrude more often, mayhap."  
  
The noise of ironshod boots clomping their way up the nearest stairwell interrupted them both then, accompanied by the distant buzz of chatter: a reminder of how they were both lingering in front of a stranger's door, looking fully intent on planning a burglary. The Warrior cleared his throat. "My apologies. Was there... aught in particular that you might wish to see in Fallgourd Float? Or," he tacked on hastily, uncertain where the conversation was even leading, "if you are restless, we could walk outside in the Shroud for a bit?"  
  
He could not tell which one of them was more relieved by the suggestion, Ophiuchus or himself. The other man rubbed his hands nervously on his legs, turning away from the door at last.   
  
"Yes," he agreed briskly. "Let us do that instead."  
  
The woods were barren of Ixal, thankfully; the Warrior did not know what he would have done if there _had_ been an ambush, other than try to defend them both bravely while Ophiuchus probably would have yelled at him about not needing any protection, despite being completely unarmed. He kept them to the road and its glowing halos of lamplight, carrying a lantern of his own with its full supply of oil. It swung from the ring in his hand and skewed the shadows around them as the Warrior led the way, nodding to the occasional patrolling Wood Wailer that they passed.   
  
When they came to the eastern river that bordered Treespeak, Ophiuchus looked at him quizzically when the Warrior jerked his head south towards the bank rather than the bridge, but followed along without protest. The ground here was more treacherous, coated in tree roots waiting to snarl any foot they could find. The Warrior picked his way carefully around them, holding the lantern down low so that they could see the ground well enough not to trip. He knew the terrain already, having walked it before in both night and day; luckily, it was not far until they came to a dry enough spot overlooking the river, the forest parting enough to allow some moonlight to trickle through the branches.  
  
"This is one of my favorite spots, whenever I come to the Shroud." He settled down carefully, checking for enough solid patches of grass that he could be sure he was not planting himself squarely in the mud. As he unslung his travel pack, the weight of it reminded him of the contents. "Have you eaten?"  
  
The way that Ophiuchus narrowed his eyes was answer enough. "You treat me like a stray dog, to be fed every time I visit you."  
  
"Mayhap you should stop looking half-starved in my company," the Warrior rebutted. He flipped open the satchel and pulled out a wrapped bundle of jerky, offering over the first piece nonchalantly. "Here. Let us sit a while and watch the stars, and you can tell me about what sort of atrocities have plagued your week, driving you thus to my door."  
  
He had meant it humorously, knowing how private Ophiuchus was about his affairs -- there might have been a transaction that had been reneged upon, perhaps, or a missing ledger that had all the year's payment records -- but the scribe was more ruffled than normal. In a rare moment of compliance, he accepted the venison without further complaint, holding it in his fingers as if he had forgotten what to do with it other than stare blankly at it.  
  
He hesitated for another moment, and then finally plowed ahead. "I have a client who is particularly stubborn, and possessed of the highest degree of independence imaginable. He is prone to rash decisions without telling any of the rest of us first, and it _always_ seems as if I must chase after his latest efforts simply to be aware of what he is doing at all. And he... he _recruits_ his assistants seemingly at whim, but barely equips them with any knowledge of how to keep from attracting attention from the locals, so that everywhere they go, they make a tremendous _racket_ that could be _entirely_ avoided if he spent even a few bells' worth acclimating them! And another of my companions likes to do naught but _oversleep_ these days, telling the rest of us simply that we can keep the others properly in check, though that clearly is _not_ the case. Compounding all of this, there is a -- a younger client I have," Ophiuchus continued, waving an impatient hand in the air as he picked his way around the words, "who has decided that he knows better than I in how to advance our _accounts_ , and so he has declared that he will listen to naught that I say, not a single _word_ of it, regardless of my greater capacities. How do they expect me to steer them, when they cannot keep track of even their own tasks to begin with?"  
  
He blinked then as he ran out of air, taking a breath only deep enough to perform a slight huff. "None of which is of any importance," he noted swiftly, shooting his gaze up to the Warrior as if afraid he had just confessed some form of vital political secret. "Merely the hazards of business."  
  
Chin propped on his hand, the Warrior merely nodded, fascinated by the outpouring of emotion. Apart from occasional commentary during their meetings -- and often, not even then -- Ophiuchus rarely liked to reveal any details about his work. It was a sensible precaution for an Ul'dahn accountant, and the Warrior knew better than to press. The Monetarists had their reputation for a reason.  
  
"I will tell no one," he promised simply: further elaboration might cause Ophiuchus to fear that he had breached a matter of confidentiality by sheer accident, even though the Warrior would never recognize it. "You have more than earned that right from me. After all," he admitted, surprising himself with how easy the next words were to say, "there is much I tell you that I cannot share with anyone else, either."  
  
"Complaining will solve little, despite how I might wish otherwise." Formality was already dropping over Ophiuchus's face like a shroud, smoothing out the tension in the man's mouth, the sharpness in his eyes -- dulling the vibrancy of the person beneath. He inclined his head towards the Warrior, turning the focus of the conversation around as neatly as a spun knife. "And what of you, Primal-slayer? Have the Scions who employ you kept you too busy to tend to your own interests? Or have you come across some true champion of virtue whom we might all take our lessons from?"  
  
The river gurgled its way through the forest beside them: a current of inky darkness that glittered with stolen reflections. This was the right point in the conversation to ask, though the Warrior was not certain how to broach the subject without it sounding like an accusation. Either he addressed the subject now, or allowed the doubt to fester forever.   
  
"I went looking for old tales of Sil'dih," he began hesitantly. "I thought you might enjoy having a copy of it as well. But the historians I spoke to could find no record whatsoever of a general named Nanalija Fefelija. They _did_ find a hero named Sasayade Loloyade who had been a steward before taking to the battlefield -- but naught else was the same. Are you certain Nanalija Fefelija was from Sil'dih?"  
  
He had tried to make the question casual -- all legends were doomed to inaccuracies, after all, and the only reason he had not purchased any of the other tomes was because he hadn't known if he'd been searching for the wrong lalafell entirely -- but it had the opposite effect upon Ophiuchus. The man jerked his chin up imperiously; his expression was aloof, serene, like the marble statue he so often liked to pretend to be, but blood stung his cheeks in pinpricks of color.  
  
"Trivial details," he uttered coldly, staring down at the Warrior as if seated upon the distance of the highest throne imaginable. The lines of his face were graced with a strange, aloof fury, as if every word had been evidence in a charge of murder. "Nanalija Fefelija _did_ exist. I do not lie about that."  
  
Then, suddenly, Ophiuchus's composure wavered. His gaze dropped to the side; the man wet his lips, picking his words with care. "I... may have some of the finer points wrong," he admitted reluctantly. "The year, or... the name. The nation. But the tale itself, the _heart_ of it -- _that_ is true, I swear to you. Every valiant hero who has come and gone, I have done my best to mark them. It is my own memory which is... difficult at times. That is why I sit in Vesper Bay and regard the passage of travelers, so that I am reminded of what mankind believes are heroes, in this day and age -- remembering their stories, even as they pale in comparison to the ones which have come before."  
  
As eloquent as the explanation was -- even under duress -- it came out in nearly a mutter, burying itself beneath its own shame. The condition made sense. It explained much of Ophiuchus's standoffishness, all the ways that he withdrew behind formality and dismissiveness. Memory was key for keeping accurate accounts; countless merchants would try to bilk or discredit him if they knew he had the potential for flawed records. His reputation in Ul'dah would be ruined. His livelihood, lost.  
  
Like the Warrior, Ophiuchus was a man who had also lost his footing in the world, a place to belong to -- and who had learned, painstakingly, not to reach out again.  
  
The Warrior had no right to ask further. Ophiuchus had not invited him to intrude in his life. And if he misjudged the matter, the Warrior would have no one else to blame but himself for potentially sullying the fragile trust they had built together so far.   
  
But even knowing the chance of mistakes, he could not turn away from the opportunity either.  
  
_Courage and kindness_ , he thought, and plunged ahead.  
  
"Is that why you also fear showing your emotions to others?" he asked Ophiuchus softly. "Because without memory -- _without_ those connections -- you find yourself uncertain of who you're supposed to be anymore? When you have been cut away from your friends and are left drifting in this uncertainty, then how can you know what you have the right to ask of them -- or even what _is_ appropriate for you to feel?"  
  
He had known that the question to be an invasive one; he would not have blamed Ophiuchus for simply standing up and stalking back to Fallgourd Float in silence. But -- as if the Warrior's voice had been a knife that had gashed open the smooth veneer of the scribe's face -- Ophiuchus jerked his head up, staring at him in horror. Raw, naked grief streaked his features, more damning than any blood.  
  
"Even if I _wished_ to tell someone," the man demanded in a harsh whisper, "who could I even _tell?_ "  
  
"Me." The Warrior did not allow his gaze to waver. "You can tell _me_ , Ophiuchus. No matter how vast or small it may be, I will listen to it all."  
  
He had meant it as reassurance, but it came out like a vow instead, and he refused to back down from that significance. "I also know what it is like to have the bonds of memory severed. Whether it is about your business dealings or your own concerns, I will not share your confidence with anyone, Ophiuchus. Your words will remain safe with me. I swear it."  
  
Ophiuchus had managed to put himself back together halfway during the solemnity of the Warrior's speech, and by the end of it, his mouth was a fragile line, wavering still in the corners. "I believe you," he uttered slowly, with the same perplexed confusion as the first time they had met. "Though I doubt even _you_ understand the full extent of what you have promised."  
  
The Warrior acknowledged the risk with a nod; it would have been rude to claim otherwise. "I meant it when I said there was much I could share only with you," he put forth. "The Calamity has afflicted countless Eorzeans with gaps in their memories. I have... met with those who once were friends, and who have been robbed of any memory of their own names. Others I once fought alongside have lost mine. And even I have an emptiness in my own life as well that troubles me," he continued, feeling both sheepish and impolite to tack on his own experiences to what Ophiuchus had just confessed to, even if they were similar vulnerabilities. "A void that encompasses the entire five years since the Seventh Umbral Calamity, up until only a short while ago."  
  
He was right to choose curiosity over condolences; the latter would have exacerbated Ophiuchus beyond all reckoning. Instead, the scribe frowned, his attention hooked by the revelation. "So _that_ was what you meant when you said you had been brought back," he murmured. Then he leaned forward, his interest shifting into a hawk's hunger. " _Tell me._ "  
  
Even with the invitation -- the privacy of the forest around them, the stillness of the night, Ophiuchus's willingness to hear any comment regardless of society's view of it -- it was difficult for the Warrior to respond. No one other than Minfilia knew his history anymore; he had not spoken the words aloud to anyone. The few times he had attempted in private, he had given up quickly at how useless they sounded, grateful for the fact that he would never have the chance to share them anyway.  
  
But if it was hard for him to voice such things, it must have been far worse for Ophiuchus to admit a similar truth about himself, not knowing how the Warrior would react.  
  
"I fought alongside the Allied Forces at Carteneau." It came out clumsily: raw facts, all delicacy stripped away by the inadequacy of their own limitations. "The great clouds of dust and soot, the constant crashing of blade and armor. The shudder beneath my feet as warmarchina marched towards me, and the screams of those trampled beneath them. When Dalamud came down, and Bahamut's wings spread across a sky turned to molten fire. I thought that was to be the end of me. What else was there to do, save perish? What were _any_ of us to do?"  
  
Fires billowed through his mind in place of words. For a moment, the Warrior was there again, unable to breathe through the smoke. His chest was tight; he could feel his pulse rising, soaring out of his control. "Then the clouds parted, and Bahamut himself sank through the air to focus upon the battlefront I was helping to hold, his eyes glowing with rage. Louisoux... tried to shield us, tried to bind him once more in an azure prison -- only to have it shatter. Bahamut would not yield. And then, as the light of death approached me, some manner of force wrapped its tendrils around me -- I know not what. All I know is that the world went dark around me, and I knew naught, save a few, scattered fragments that could barely be called dreams."  
  
He swallowed, tasting acid on the back of his tongue. His entire throat felt scraped and scoured, as if lines had been etched permanently into the tissues of his body thanks to too much screaming.   
  
"And suddenly," he continued, unfolding his hands carefully from the fists they had made without his awareness, "I opened my eyes and found myself surrounded by the light of the sun once more -- far from Carteneau, surrounded by trees thick and lush around me. My armor was gone, my weapons absent -- left behind on the Flats to be recovered by salvagers. My body was weakened as if from long starvation, all my skills so rusty as to make me a novice fresh to the field. And, in that time... five entire years had passed. Whatever I had done in that expanse is lost to me. Mayhap time and space held me prisoner, or I was trapped in some form of stasis gone wrong. Or mayhap 'twas no spell that claimed me then, and 'tis my own mind trying to make sense of memories stolen away from me," he suggested, trying and failing to laugh.   
  
He did not have the humor in him for a second attempt, turning his hands around to lay them flat upon his thighs. His fingers weren't shaking; he was glad of that.   
  
He did not have the strength to look at Ophiuchus immediately. "Is it much the same for you?"  
  
Ophiuchus had remained silent throughout his explanation. He had still said nothing by the time that the Warrior finally glanced up, hesitating over his own answer until he finally glimpsed the Warrior's knit brow. "'Tis both past and present that I forget, if I am not careful. You do not find it strange, then, to be absent of those years?"  
  
"Strange or not, what can be done about it?" This grievance, at least, was easier to say. It began to thaw some of the rigid tension inside the Warrior's chest, sliding gratefully back into the familiar rhythm of their conversations. "There are no answers as to what I and others have lost. Some have forgotten more than five years -- others, less." He shrugged. "Mayhap I fell into the Lifestream and drifted for five years."  
  
"You would have died." Sounding entirely unimpressed, Ophiuchus searched the dirt beside his foot for a rock, and pitched it promptly towards the stream where it vanished into the pitch-black waters with a wan splash. "Vanished, just like that stone. Long before those five years had passed, your soul would have been reduced to its most basic aetherial components, like a wall dismantled into bricks. _Unless_ ," he mused slowly, his tone lifting like a gull whose wings were being guided forward by curiosity, his pale gaze fixed assessingly upon the Warrior, "you had somehow become part of a _greater_ force, taken into its being and made one with it -- and then, never to be fully yourself afterwards. Instead, you would always be part of something... _else_."  
  
"The Lifestream."  
  
" _No_ , _not_ the Lifestream!" Scowling in exasperation, Ophiuchus turned his full glare upon him -- only to have his indignation defused as he spotted the Warrior's smirk. Sighing, he finished off his remaining piece of jerky with a few neat bites. " _That_ is not a force you can become a part of in any way save the same manner in which your dinner becomes digested in your stomach. _Also_ , you would have returned to Eorzea _naked_ , not merely stripped of weapons, talents and _all_ common sense."  
  
The Warrior held up his hands in a plea for surrender. "I defeated Ifrit, didn't I? That has to count for something."  
  
"I am _rapidly_ downgrading my estimation of that entity's powers," Ophiuchus informed him flatly, and then held out his hand in silent demand towards the remainder of the venison.  
  
Unwrapping the jerky enough to peel free another slice, the Warrior offered it over obediently. "Now you know as much of my tale as there is to give," he remarked. "Even if I have merely been flung forward through time -- as Minfilia hopes -- Eorzea has yet moved on while I stumble to catch up. Thus, I'll not be offended if you forget me either," he added wryly. "I have a common face, or so I'm told."  
  
Ophiuchus picked the venison from his hand, and then leaned over far enough to snatch a second. "So long as we manage to cross paths on occasion, there should be little risk of that," he noted dismissively. "The less I interact with a subject, the faster it vanishes from me. But enough of that -- I am more interested in what your story means for _you_. A soul gone to their rest, only to be brought back into service? Tell me, Primal-slayer, how _do_ you feel about your return? Called back to your duty to save what you can, given hands and feet once more so that you can act upon it? How have _you_ considered your rebirth?"  
  
It was an unexpected direction for Ophiuchus to veer in. The Warrior had expected to be interrogated for more details of the battle, questions on exactly which people remembered what. His opinions had no part of that. He mulled over his answer, not yet finding the perfect reply, but not certain if one even existed. "I left Eorzea in the grip of war, and came back to find it much the same place. We have rebuilt, true. But it seems we have only done so in order to try and exterminate each other permanently this time." He looked down at his hands in his lap, gripping the bundle of dried meat -- and then away, as if the venison were a weapon instead. "There is no difference between the Sixth and Seventh Eras for me. It is simply one long war, blurring continually together. I can only hazard that I have been brought back on behalf of someone's banner, and that is the only reason I still draw breath. If the Mothercrystal bids me to fight... I imagine I have little choice but to do so."  
  
"Yes." Resignation bound Ophiuchus's voice. "We are both here in this fashion, aren't we."  
  
A colder breeze cut across the water then, the winds picking up as the night deepened, reminding the Warrior of just how late the time was. The temperatures were cooling off rapidly, and -- unlike himself -- Ophiuchus did not walk about in traveler's leathers.   
  
"Are you staying at another inn in Fallgourd Float?" he asked, already hoping for the answer to be yes. If so, then they could take their time in returning -- but if not, then he had already run the man far past a decent schedule. "It is too late to walk the road alone. I could not in good conscience allow you to do so, unless you wished me to escort you to your next destination myself?"  
  
He had blurted the invitation without thinking; only after he finished did he blink, wondering if he had truly heard himself correctly. Ophiuchus looked equally startled, quickly shaking his head in refusal. "I have... a chocobo stabled. I will be safe, you need not concern yourself. And... as for your own affairs?"  
  
"Stuck in the Twelveswood for a time." The Warrior shrugged. "There is business here as well that the Scions would wish me to look into." Murders. Sightings of Ascians, chasing down every masked individual who passed through, which ironically cast suspicion on anyone from Ul'dah, along with the Wood Wailers themselves. "But whether 'tis here or in Vesper Bay, I will see you again, I hope?"  
  
To hear the word _yes_ would have been too much to ask for. With all that Ophiuchus had revealed, the Warrior could understand if the man would want to reestablish the distance between them. Even if Ophiuchus might have been ready to share such things, it had been wrestled out of him without any chance to prepare, and being offered a secret back did not necessarily make anything better. They may have already spoken more than the scribe felt comfortable with -- particularly if he preferred them to be mere acquaintances, and little more.   
  
Any and all of those answers would have been understandable. But Ophiuchus rubbed his chin as he gathered himself to his feet, dusting the grass off his robes. "Soon, mayhap. I suppose I have little choice in the matter," he added thoughtfully, regarding the Warrior with the same cool scrutiny as ever -- but with a smile rounding his mouth, one that refused to hide this time. "Not when you continue to surprise me each time we meet."

* * *

Ophiuchus excused himself quickly once they returned to Fallgourd Float, heading down one of the side bridges that must have led to a secondary stable where his chocobo was being kept. The Warrior let him go without further delays. Their conversation had taken more out of him than he expected; he felt light-headed, a little dizzy as if from bloodloss or sheer relief. Ever since returning to Eorzea, he had kept the secret of his past like a stone in his mouth, weighing down his tongue. Unable to either swallow it or spit it out, he had tried to force every word around the unseen shape of it, each sound distorted by what he refused to admit to.   
  
It felt strange to have the truth acknowledged, and yet to also have no change in the world around him -- to have it simply _accepted_ , much like Ophiuchus took even their most contentious debates in stride. The steadfastness of it all was as welcome as a whole battalion of Allied fighters at his back; it grounded him, allowing him to slowly put the rest of his experiences back into language again, where they might be examined and finally laid aside.  
  
Even though the Scions did not remember him -- and possibly never would -- Ophiuchus's company made Eorzea feel a little more like a place the Warrior might belong.  
  
He fell asleep faster than he expected that night, and woke only when the sound of birdsong began to trickle in through the windows, announcing the warming light of dawn.

* * *

With both Ifrit and Ramuh having made the list of the Scion's concerns, it was only a matter of time before Titan was added in kind.  
  
Even with the amount of running about to track down the former members of the Company of Heroes, the Warrior had to admit that Costa del Sol was far from the worst of places to end up. He had traveled across all of Eorzea and back again -- relieved that the Maelstrom was helping with the costs, as part of their commission to the Scions -- and though he did not wish to be ungrateful, the Warrior _did_ find himself gripped by the urge to point out that it was a good thing Titan was not the type of Primal to get impatient on his own time. Ifrit, for example, would have likely started burning down entire villages while the Warrior had still been tied up on the hunt for goblin cheese.   
  
But -- like the sylphs -- what mattered was that they finally had a lead into the Navel. Y'shtola had already bid him good night, and though the hour was late, Costa del Sol only continued to simmer with the noise of drunken festivities. Giggles drifted up like bubbles in a sparkling Wineport red. Every now and then, there was the occasional screech as someone slipped off one of the bridges into the water; thankfully, Gegeruju's guards were near enough that the Warrior did not have to worry about rushing to save someone from drowning.  
  
He rested his hands on the windowsill of his room, looking out over the coast as the first few stars began to decorate the sky.  
  
When he heard the knocking, he half-expected Y'shtola, or possibly Wheiskaet with another errand to run as proof of his determination -- but when the Warrior opened the door, already drawing breath to complain, it was neither.  
  
"Ophiuchus," he exclaimed, startled by the man's arrival -- and, at the strangeness of seeing Ophiuchus dressed in anything save his usual robes. Trousers and a neatly laced tunic had replaced the scribe's typical garb, equally tidy and impeccably unwrinkled. Unsurprisingly, Ophiuchus had largely kept to pale colors, but his hair had been tied back into a neat tail with a deep blue ribbon, cinched at the nape of his neck in a nobleman's style. Rather than look like a desert-dweller who had accidentally strayed into the Twelveswood, the whole set matched any of Limsa's other natives -- a choice which, the Warrior realized, meant that this visit had been determined well in advance.  
  
He opened his mouth to ask what the occasion was, but Ophiuchus preempted him, clearing his throat. "I wished to see you," he announced, with his chin lifted defiantly: a declaration so simple and fierce that it was as if the man were challenging the realm itself to open up and send a new Calamity against him. "Even despite how terrible a decision it may be, I find that it is... a thing which I continue to desire. Do you have time in your schedule for me tonight?"  
  
Presented with such forthrightness, the Warrior could only blink. "Your timing is impeccable," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck and trying not to think too hard about alternatives if his next words were not welcome. "The tides are right tonight for silver sharks and gigant clams. I was planning to go watch the spectacle. There will be fishers all the way along the southern coast of Bloodshore. Would you like to join me? 'Tis a sight worth seeing, if you have not before."  
  
Ophiuchus lifted an eyebrow dubiously. "Fisherfolk?"   
  
The Warrior nodded, gamely trying to find the best words to make it sound more entertaining than waiting for bread dough to rise. "The skies are clear, and the moon has waned. The fisherfolk will have lights on their rods to better catch their prey. It truly _is_ a thing of beauty," he claimed, "though many do not take the time to watch the affair for its own merits."  
  
He could tell that Ophiuchus was not entirely convinced by the way that the scribe squinted at him, as if wondering if the Warrior had taken a leave of his senses.   
  
"A pack of fisherfolk is a sight which is hardly exclusive to Eastern La Noscea," the man hedged eventually.  
  
"No." The Warrior felt his mouth quirk in a smile, victory within reach. "But seeing it with _you_ would make it so."  
  
The immediate sigh of suffering that Ophiuchus made was proof enough of the man's surrender. Grinning, the Warrior grabbed a second blanket to sit upon, and headed out the door.  
  
Numerous hills overlooked the beaches of Bloodshore, and the Warrior did not bother trying to pick one lofty enough to impress. He headed directly for the nearest slope that was gentle enough to climb without effort, weaving around the humped shadows of buffalo herds clustered together for the night. The lights from Costa del Sol and the nearby watchtower were bright enough that the terrain was clear enough to walk unaided; even so, the Warrior knew better than to dare the cliff's edge and what could be a lethal fall. He led them forward until they finally worked their way safely over to the tip of the promontory, and the ocean spread out before them like a massive curtain of rippling velvet, froth lacing the edge of each wave like liquid pearls.  
  
"There," the Warrior whispered, nudging Ophiuchus's shoulder with his own. "So, is it worth it?"  
  
Below them glittered a tapestry of swaying lights, each one rising and falling rhythmically to the cast of the fishing lines they were attached to. Like a thousand gleaming fireflies dancing in the night, they filled the ocean like stars endlessly falling from the heavens, or a vast net spun from invisible silk and studded with crystals at every knot, undulating like a banner caught by a leisurely summer wind. The sea sighed around them with each fresh wave, echoing back fresh reflections that shattered upon the shore.  
  
"Yes," Ophiuchus murmured back after a long moment. His voice was similarly hushed, though there was no one else around to hear them. "It is like... a living city, seen from far above. Filled with thousands upon thousands of souls going about their daily affairs, all bright with vitality."  
  
"A city with a candle in every window, and a lantern in every hand, mayhap," the Warrior agreed; he could not imagine such a place, but it sounded fanciful enough.   
  
He turned away to spread out both blankets, taking care not to accidentally lay them upon any sharp rocks that were hiding in the gloom. "In truth, I am glad that you found me today," he began, doing his best to keep his tone light-hearted and conversational. One of the blanket corners refused to lay flat; he pulled it back far enough to refold the fabric. "Even though we have both searched all this while for the true nature of heroes, I fear I have helped you come no closer to what you truly seek. 'Tis a poor note to end on, if I do not return from the field this time."  
  
Despite how casually he tried to speak, Ophiuchus immediately swung around from the view of the ocean, ignoring it in favor of staring pointedly at him. His voice was deceptively mild. "And what are you being sent against now, pray?"  
  
The Warrior hid a wince. Hoping to distract the man from any concerns, he gestured to the blanket beside Ophiuchus in an invitation to sit -- a gesture which went ignored. Thwarted, he cleared his throat sheepishly. "I am to be sent against Titan soon. We have been advised on a method by which we can reach him, but it remains a dangerous one, and does not guarantee a safe return. So... I wished to thank you for coming tonight, in case this will be the last time I see you."  
  
It felt harder than he thought to say the words, despite how he tried to lighten the burden of it with a laugh. He felt awkward in every ilm of his body, his fingers wanting to fidget with everything within reach, his posture feeling gawky and tense. He was uncertain if he should sit or remain standing, or if he should simply walk over the edge of the cliff in an attempt to dive into the light-strewn waters, to be hauled up by the fisherfolk as part of the catch.  
  
"Your employers are quick to send you against another god." The disdain in Ophiuchus's voice was chilling. The man himself was rigid, a picture of immobility that clashed against the Warrior's nervousness. "Once they have found a sword that obeys them, they are loath to put it down. And so they make _you_ culpable once more, delivering sorrow to Titan's followers when they see their god brought low."  
  
The Warrior jerked a nod. "Aye. I am to banish the Lord of Crags, both protector and father to the kobolds. But if I do not stop him here, the Maelstrom will bring even more of their forces to bear, and the losses will be far greater thanks to the lack of the Echo. Sentiment between the kobolds and Limsa Lominsa will worsen further. It is a matter of blood now, or even more blood later."  
  
The sharp, impatient flick of Ophiuchus's hand whipped the lacings of his sleeve cuff through the air, as authoritative as the Admiral herself. "A matter of blood, mayhap, but one you cannot measure," he declared. "You overlook the invisible wounds of your own aftermath. When you kill a people's god, how much worse is it to give them naught but despair and powerlessness, to know that their greatest defender can be flicked aside by a few meager individuals -- to teach them that they have no means of fighting back? To systematically bludgeon it into them that even the _hope_ of resistance is useless? You argue with Limsa Lominsa's words in your mouth, Primal-slayer -- born of profiteering and betrayal. Give me your own instead."  
  
Rebuked by nothing short of the truth, the Warrior winced. "Aye," he said again, rubbing the back of his head. He sat down heavily at last out of surrender, allowing Ophiuchus to loom above him. "Such a feeling of powerlessness was what fueled the Garleans in _their_ vengeance. To teach a people that they can do naught against you, that they cannot protect themselves _from_ you -- that is a cost that will come back to haunt us."  
  
He knew he had lost -- that Ophiuchus knew it too, for both of them were arguing the same point now. The truth changed nothing. In the morning, the Warrior would still meet with Y'shtola over breakfast. He would still agree to the attack. And then they would head off to search for the kobolds' aetheryte, and only afterwards would someone say: _this was just and right._   
  
"Mayhap I will perish instead," he suggested quickly in an attempt to change the subject, trying to sound blithe about the matter. "And both Limsa Lominsa and the kobolds will decide that enough lives have been lost, solving their strife there. That would solve matters nicely, no?"  
  
Ophiuchus gave him a look that was visibly irritated, finally relaxing back enough into his frustration that he was beginning to display it once more. "You always have the worst ideas," he scowled. "No. I _forbid_ it. I am counting on you to show me the mettle of heroes in this age, after all. You cannot do so if you are pulverized into offal."  
  
Below them, the ocean waves continued to ripple, silver coils melting along the shore. A new batch of fisherfolk were settling in, their voices echoing distantly across the waters as they called back and forth to one another. The stars had revealed themselves in their full splendor, their own latecomers ready at last; their radiance mixed with the rippling sea beneath them, a dancing mirror of the heavens that rose and fell with every flick of a fisher's line.  
  
The Warrior felt the corner of his mouth turn up. "I will do my best to remain intact."  
  
He inhaled deeply to brace himself, reminding himself to sound unworried, even as a hint of true trepidation snaked its way past his own protective bravado. He had managed to fool the Scions -- Y'shtola had shown no sign of noticing any of his nervousness -- but Ophiuchus knew him well enough to be suspicious. "My room in Vesper Bay is paid up through the next moon. If I do not return, please feel free to make it your own. I have already informed the innkeeper to allow you a key." It sounded a little breathless even to his own ears; he could already tell that he was rambling, but it was too late to get his thoughts in a respectable order. "Come anytime you wish. Even if I should survive. If you are ever in Vesper Bay and have need of a roof, then you can -- you can stay there, if you wish it. To do your work, if you need a table. There is a couch I can use, you need not sleep on the floor," he offered, trying not to feel giddy with light-headedness, even though he swore he was breathing properly and at the right intervals. "Anytime. Tonight as well, if you desire it. There is more than enough space in my inn room for us both. We could -- I have a meeting with Y'shtola in the morning, but before then. We could have breakfast together, and I could see you off when you need to go."  
  
It was a haphazard string of words, thrown together in a desperate, failing attempt to patch them into sentences. He did not even know what he was really asking, beyond the desire to not have the evening end -- to go back and find a bottle of wine, perhaps, and try to drag out the bells until dawn. It was an entirely unrealistic idea, since they would both have to sleep at _some_ point; he would have to unpack his bedroll for his own use, and hope that Ophiuchus would not point out that he had a perfectly good room already rented, and no need for charity.   
  
But if this might be the last time before Titan might claim his life -- the final meeting they might ever have together -- then he wanted to thank the man somehow, to express how much each of their conversations had meant in a world where the Warrior had been suddenly stripped of all other honesty. The impulse was unmoored in any logic; it made him both reckless and afraid. He wanted to touch the other man's hand, to reach up and pull Ophiuchus closer towards him. To sit beside him on the same blanket, leaning into each other while they both watched the constellations overhead, making idle observations and arguments into the other person's hair.  
  
To ask if it would be all right to kiss him, only once, as the last person he might ever kiss.  
  
But Ophiuchus was silent, and with every moment that passed, the prospect of rejection only grew further, until it seemed as if it was the only imaginable outcome -- and even so, the Warrior could not help but wait, hope alone holding him afloat. He could not see the other man's expression clearly; the world was bathed in pale illumination from the stars overhead and the river of lights below. The refracted brilliance of beach sand and the multicolored glow of Costa del Sol combined to cast a dizzying flurry of shadows over the contours of the scribe's face. He could not tell if Ophiuchus was frowning.  
  
"If I do not see you again," he began once more, trying to summon up the courage for a question he did not even know, that he could not grasp, for every time he tried to reach for what he wanted to say, it slid away from him like a greased eel. "I -- mayhap, I simply wish to say..."  
  
_That_ attempt failed too. He abandoned it guilelessly, like a fish tossed back into the ocean for being too small. "I will always be glad to have met you." He could not look at Ophiuchus directly anymore -- only at the waters, at the lights, and at the soaring constellations they made as they lifted themselves in arcs across the waves. "You have brought a better meaning to my days since my return. It has made all the difference, and I am thankful for it."  
  
At last, Ophiuchus stirred, exhaling a rough, fraying sigh. "You should not be grateful. I am the _last_ person you should be happy to meet."  
  
"Too late," the Warrior replied softly. "It is so, regardless."  
  
He dared not count how many seconds were passing, for each one only added to the proof of his own mistake. All he could do was focus on keeping his lungs working -- to remind them to rise and fall against the pressure of his ribs, to tell himself that his heart was merely beating instead of spasming in its death throes, that he still lived despite the impossibility of what he was trying not to feel.  
  
Finally, he heard the stir of grass as Ophiuchus shifted his weight. "You are not what I expected," the man admitted. "But you are a problem I cannot leave behind. Not yet."  
  
Caught in trying to interpret the words, the Warrior could only jerk his head up in surprise as Ophiuchus stepped directly in front of him, blocking the view between him and the ocean. The pale folds of the man's shirt had become a blur of muted shadows, a camouflage of fabric that swung nearer -- and then Ophiuchus was bending down towards him, close enough to touch.  
  
The Warrior could feel the brush of Ophiuchus's sleeve against his throat. Ophiuchus's fingers, helping to tilt the Warrior's chin back further as the man leaned in even further. The rest of the world no longer existed; there was nothing save for Ophiuchus now, nothing save for the heat of his skin, the weight of his presence mere ilms away.  
  
The Warrior registered Ophiuchus's breath against his forehead only seconds before the man kissed it.  
  
It should have been a chaste kiss in every way: a benediction against his brow, like a prayer given to a soldier before they left on their final deployment. But Ophiuchus lingered, his lips soft against the Warrior's skin, his mouth parting slightly to press against him a second time. Both his hands shifted up to cradle the Warrior's jaw in his palms, his thumbs brushing against the Warrior's cheekbones -- and the Warrior felt his breath hitch, hearing a soft, surprised gasp of noise from his own throat as he tried to lean up instinctively into that warmth.   
  
Ophiuchus's hands brushed against the corners of his mouth. If the Warrior only turned his face a fractional degree, he could kiss him back. He could explore the soft, uncalloused skin of Ophiuchus's hands with his own lips, could press silent pleas into each palm, take each delicate finger into his mouth and run his tongue over the knuckles. He could reach up and slide his hands along Ophiuchus's wrists, inviting the other man down onto the blanket, down onto _him_ , their legs tangling together as they forgot entirely about the ocean and all its glory.  
  
But he kept control of himself with an effort, though he had to close his eyes to keep himself from wanting more. His lungs were laboring erratically; he was keenly aware that Ophiuchus could almost certainly sense it, tracking each hard swallow of the Warrior's throat with those clever scribe's fingers. He closed his own hands tightly, balling them into fists and pressing them against his legs out of a sudden fear that if he allowed them freedom, they might reach up of their own accord to beg for more.   
  
Another moment, and he would act. Only another moment.  
  
Then it was over and Ophiuchus was straightening up, releasing the Warrior back to the mercy of being able to have a normal heartbeat again.   
  
"You are stronger than Titan," the man announced suddenly, as if they had never paused in their conversation to begin with. "You are greater than _any_ of these lesser Primals that Eorzea would seek to throw your way. You must return. I am _telling_ you," he repeated, the brittle imperiousness of all his pride coming to bear like a royal decree, "you _must_ return, or else -- else I will have to go through the trouble of finding _another_ conversation partner, and Eorzea has a marked dearth of worthwhile ones."  
  
The tightness in Ophiuchus's voice was as good as a scream; the Warrior forced himself out of his daze, even when every part of himself wished to linger in the warmth of the kiss, endlessly running over the memories of Ophiuchus's hands. Ophiuchus's mouth. He shoved the comfort of it all away ruthlessly, knowing he would never be able to recapture it completely later, but refusing to ignore the other man's need.  
  
"Then I will." Brushing the hair out of his eyes, the Warrior looked up resolutely towards him. It was a different kind of promise than the assurances he had given to Y'shtola and the Company of Heroes: there was a simplicity to it, something straightforward and uncomplicated, where the only agenda being fulfilled had nothing to do with city-state politics or territory disputes. "I will come back to you."  
  
He made his vow without any expectation of one being given back in kind; he knew better than to try and hobble Ophiuchus's affairs with an adventurer's erratic schedule. He was not foolish enough to think he could give any guarantees of it, either -- particularly not where Primals were involved. But Ophiuchus surprised him a second time, making a curt nod even as the scribe's shoulders went slack in relief.  
  
"Good," the man purred: barely a silkspun rumble, a pleased hum that consisted of nothing save pure satisfaction. He turned away, his tone lifting back into its familiar loftiness. "Then I suppose I had best stay with you until the stars themselves go out, mustn't I?"  
  
The Warrior yanked his gaze around -- but Ophiuchus was already sitting down on the patch of his own blanket, gracefully stretching out his legs. His face was turned studiously towards the coastline, clearly intent on watching the spectacle of fishing lights below, and saying nothing more.   
  
Fighting back his own smile, the Warrior leaned back on his hands to regard the field of stars. Like bobbing fireflies, the glow spread all around them, matched in sea and sky. Constellations whirled above and below their feet, as if he and Ophiuchus were adrift in the heavens themselves, floating in an endless ocean flecked with gold and silver petals: a storm of color with them as the nexus, celebrating darkness and light in equal measure.  
  
The night deepened further into blackness. Even the revelry from Costa del Sol began to dim. Neither the Warrior nor Ophiuchus stirred. Together, they watched as -- one by one -- each fisher began to pack up their catches, extinguish their lights, and succumb to the need for sleep.  
  



End file.
